The First Dance
by redheadfaerie
Summary: Hermione celebrates her first birthday after the war in which the Dark Lord triumphed. The Dark Lord who just happened to be her father. (response to a challenge)


_4\. How the War was won. The war didn't go how everyone expected, the Light did not triumph over the Dark and Harry Potter chose not to return after visiting the waiting room. Narcissa Malfoy is murdered, Bellatrix Lestrange did not perish and Severus Snape was revealed to be a true soldier for the dark having tricked everyone. The spoils are rewarded, public executions take place yet one witch, one very lucky witch is ousted as a spy...a spy since her birth._

Hermione stood at the top of the stone staircase, looking down at the revellers in her father's ballroom. They were all here to celebrate her nineteenth birthday, a mere four months since the Dark Lord had killed Harry Potter in the Forbidden Forest. Her life had changed irrevocably since that time, and all for the better. For the first time in her life, she was free to be herself, not an actress in the grand stage of life, following a script of deception that had been laid before her at such an early age.

She watched them dance, the steps of the round known to her since childhood. Smiling fondly down at them, she thought back to the night that made this party possible- the night, when just after Hagrid brought Harry's lifeless body to Hogwarts Castle, the Dark Lord asked her side of the clearing in the debris to cross over, and to join him. Neville gave a resounding speech, but its effect was immediately lost when she extricated her hand from that of the ginger blood traitor, and slowly made her way to the smiling forms of her parents, the undetectable glamour charms melting away from her, until she stood within the arms of the Dark Lord, her beautiful features a mixture of Tom Riddle and Bellatrix Lestrange.

Both sides of the clearing gasped as one, shocked at this turn. "I would like you introduce you all to my daughter, Hermione Black," he informed the slack-jawed crowd in his terror inducing, high-pitched voice while Bellatrix preened beside him. "who has worked tirelessly her entire life, ensuring the eventual success of our cause." It did not take long for the screams to start- half out of jubilation, half out of anger and betrayal. Unsurprisingly, the loudest screeches she heard came from none other than Molly Weasley, who had been counting on her becoming a member of the red-headed clan.

"Princess," a familiar voice drawled, shaking her from her thoughts. Draco Malfoy stood next to her, glancing at the party before his eyes fixed on her face, pointedly ignoring the tight, black lace dress she was wearing that covered much but showed even more. "We really should be on to the festivities, what with you being the guest of honor."

"Cousin," she replied drolly, rolling her eyes while a slight smile pulled at the corners of her mouth, "how many times must I tell you not to call me Princess?"

"Until it stops bothering you," he answered cheekily. He held out his arm in a most gentlemanly fashion, and the two moved down the stairs, a comfort between them that would astonish everyone who had known her in her previous life. With this movement, all eyes from below centered near, but not directly on the pair, a hush befalling the room as they made their way through her father's devoted followers to the dias her father was seated upon, an empty chair between him and her mother, surrounded by his elite inner circle.

She stopped to curtsy to her mother before continuing on to kiss her father's cheek, waxen and white from all of the snake venom that had been used to uphold his existence over the years. She sat in her chair and bade the dancing to continue. "Are the decorations to your liking, my dear?" the Dark Lord asked, automatically switching to Parseltongue to speak to his daughter with a glint to his eye.

The question brought her attention to the walls of the room, where people were held by chains, silenced so their screams would not be heard. Many of the opposition had been executed, but not as many as expected, and surprisingly, not many leaders of their cause. No, that would have been too quick of an exit for them. Instead they were held captive, brought out of their cages for a little sport of torture every here and there, as well as for show on occasions such as this party. Hermione had already gained a reputation for torture, having the smarts of her father, the gusto of her mother, and the crazy of neither.

Her success came from knowing how best to torment her subjects, understanding that violence and magic were often the least desirable route to take, but still held their places of worth. Unsurprisingly, she was proving an apt pupil to her mother with a blade. In the captive witch and wizard, it was the mental and the physical that would truly break them down, where they had less skill to defend themselves. It certainly did not hurt that with many of the elite opposition- the Order of the Phoenix- she had had years to learn their personal weaknesses and strengths, and to assess how to best break them when the time came.

Around the chained prisoners, every last one of them naked, were intermittent fireplaces, warming the bricks of the walls to an uncomfortable heat with a modified Warming Charm. Where the heat ended, the ice abruptly began, beautiful sculptures depicting mythical creatures and battles. Half of the prisoners were sweating, the other half shivering with a cold that crept to their very bones. Every here and there, a party-goer would send a spell off their way, just for fun. Each time a spell connected, a riot of laughter would occur in the area, but then people would go back to what they had been doing, the poor souls lining the wall momentarily forgotten like the mere decorations that they were.

"I very much approve, Father," she responded before looking up to him coyly. "Will we get to play with any of them later?"

He laughed openly, a joy taken in his child that none save her mother had ever seen from him, and even with Bellatrix, such displays were rare, verging on critically endangered. In fact, many had marvelled at such a change in his personality until they saw that it only applied to Hermione, and none else; even she was not completely saved from his temper, his expectations for her higher than any of his other followers. "Of course. But first, go mingle. This is your party, and you should not spend the entire time sitting up here watching."

"Neither should you," she responded enigmatically, a glance sent in the direction of her mother, who was having a conversation with Headmaster Snape as to the status of rebuilding the school for the next fall semester. The current year was a wash with all of the damage, not just to the building itself, but to the wards of the castle and grounds. She stood gracefully, walking away to the sound of him chuckling behind her.

She sashayed to the main square of the floor, wondering who, if anyone, would be so bold as to approach her instead of her having to choose a dance partner on her own, the pick to be scrutinized and analyzed by all in attendance. There turned out to be only one who was willing to approach her with her father looking on- the man the Dark Lord had put in the position of Minister of Magic once he had won against Potter.

"May I have this dance?" Lucius Malfoy confidently questioned, bowing slightly as he held out his manicured hand, his elegance suffusing every movement, his exquisitely tailored robes accenting his solid physique.

"Of course, Minister," she responded, her face betraying nothing of what was in her mind. She had always admired the elder Malfoy. He was well-to-do, and not just because he was born into wealth, but because he knew how to manage and increase that wealth exponentially.

He was firmly adhered to his support in her father, so much so that when he found out that his wife was not willing to sacrifice their only son through Draco's own choices and actions for their master's cause, he put her to death, making sure she did not go quietly. He knew, as had Draco, that the test was not for Draco himself, but for Snape the entire time. His wife, however, did not, in a test of her own. He had cared for the woman at one point in his life, and was saddened for the sake of their son that she had not passed this test. But in the end, he could not have her bring shame upon his ancestral name.

When making a list of things to admire of the man in front of her, she could also not fail to overlook his raw beauty. He was classically handsome, and that hair! Her heart went aflutter just thinking of things she would like to do with his blond locks before she quickly dismissed the thoughts, hoping her father had not caught onto them. Like her father, she was skilled in Legilimency, but she had never learned Occlumency. She was not allowed to hide anything from the Dark Lord.

When she took his hand, he swept her into the throng of dancers, showing his pureblood grace and precision in the steps, and she was glad that despite being "Mudblood," she had learned all of her pureblood traditions before school and on holiday during her early years at Hogwarts. The world-at-large may not have known of her, and while her nursemaid had not known that she was the daughter of the Dark Lord rather than her mother's husband, care had been taken to bring her up properly, if anonymously, despite that anonymity coming at the price of being in the Muggle world more than not to further her ability to connect to The-Boy-Who-Lived.

Lucius spirited her around the room, bringing up small talk whenever their heads were close enough to converse, his light touch leaving trails of fire everywhere they touched. He acted the complete gentleman; until he suddenly but smoothly pulled her flush to him, one hand rather lower than propriety would have it, leaving her to hold in a groan of loss when he pulled away with a slight smirk on his face, his eyes not on her, but on a captive on the wall who was silently raging at the duo. Hermione's gaze was brought to the underfed form of Ron Weasley, frenziedly pulling at his chains, a murderous glint in his eyes as he focused on the couple.

Hermione gently laid her hands on Lucius' strong chest, leaning up to whisper in his ear, "Take me out to the terrace. Use the door directly opposite."

A sly smirk on his face, Lucius slowly danced her across the room, his hand resting at the small of her back, their light conversation now taking place in secretive hushed whispers instead of aloud. Neither spared a second glance for the blood traitor who believed he stood a chance with the Dark Princess, but were sure to stay in his line of sight until they were outside. On their way through the bodies moving with the music, she caught her father's eye, showing him her plan, ensuring he would not be overly upset with Lucius, given the state she intended to return to the party in.

Surprisingly, the terrace was empty, and Hermione made sure to continue on outside until they were no longer in sight of the ballroom. "And what is your plan that had us come out to the crisp night air, Princess?" he asked, the honorific falling from his luscious mouth with respect, as compared to the teasing tones of his son. She did not fail to notice the way that when he said the word "crisp', his eyes had momentarily made their way down to take in the hardening of her nipples with the quick shiver of her body in her barely there dress, floor length though it was.

"Just a little mental torture is all," she responded lightly, her fingers reaching up to tentatively touch his soft, soft hair. "Ron may despise me now, but that does not mean that seeing me come out with you, and in a little bit arrive back to the ball in a slightly unkempt manner, will not upset him to his very core."

"And you get nothing out of this?" Lucius asked, his eyes smoldering as they penetrated hers.

"Nothing at all," she breathed out, her hands leading his to wrap around her body.

"And I get out of this?" She noticed that despite his suaveness, he had not had the ability to stop the slight hitch in his breath when she pulled herself flush to him.

"You don't get anything, either," she answered coquettishly before fully threading her fingers into his hair, stepping up on her toes and gently meeting his lips with hers, the touch light and questioning.

He quickly deepened the kiss, his tongue assaulting her mouth in ways she had dreamed of on a near nightly basis. His fingers also threaded themselves into her hair, a close cropped pixie cut that suited her angles supremely well. She made a low noise of loss when his lips disengaged from her own, only to follow up with a quiet moan when his skillful mouth moved to her slim neck and the hollow of her throat.

His hands moved to her scarcely covered bosom, and she could feel his desire for her through the fabric of his clothes, but instead she summoned all of her control and pulled away. "I think we're both suitably unkempt now," she whispered, her appetite for the man in front of her only having increased.

She turned and headed back to the ballroom, swaying her hips gently as she turned to look over her shoulder. "Take your time, and come back to the ball whenever you are ready," she said coyly, dripping with innuendo as she glanced at the bulge in his front, moving up past his haughty smirk to his hungry eyes.

Their dance had started, the only question was who would be taking the lead for the next round.

picture that the dress is based on (picture is not emma watson, but look-alike):


End file.
